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NARCISSA

The lamps in the Wiltshire drawing room burned low, casting golden firelight across the inlaid marble floor. The scent of bergamot and cedarwood curled through the air—Lucius's choice, of course, though Narcissa had always preferred star jasmine. Still, she let the scent linger. Some things were easier to concede.

It was late. Past midnight. The manor was silent but not sleeping. It never truly did.

She sat with her back straight, tea cooling in her porcelain cup, and waited.

A soft knock.

"Come."

The door opened without creak or hesitation. Regulus stepped inside like a shadow with a purpose—black robes uncreased, silver embroidery glinting at the cuffs. He looked like he had in school: composed, quiet, already ancient.

Only Narcissa, perhaps, could see the wear behind his eyes.

"You're late," she said lightly, not rising.

"I'm always late when I visit you. You never mind."

She studied him, letting the silence stretch just long enough to become personal. Then, with a graceful flick of her wand, summoned a second teacup.

"Sit."

He did. Their chairs faced the hearth, twin angles of a once-proud dynasty. The fire cracked but made no sound. Narcissa had charmed it that way—stillness was important now.

"How is your work?" she asked.

Regulus didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the tea, fingers steady.

"Busy," he said at last. "Watching. Waiting. Dumbledore doesn't move unless he sees the whole board."

"And Lucius?"

"Plays both sides as always. He's careful. Doesn't know I'm more than what I was. Doesn't want to know."

Narcissa sipped her tea. "He knows. But he's waiting to see if it helps us."

Regulus exhaled, just once. "And you?"

"I'm a Malfoy by marriage. I'm a Black by birth. I carry both with precision."

That made him smile—small and tired.

She glanced toward the tall windows. The moonlight softened the velvet drapes into shadow.

"It's coming to a head," she said. "Isn't it."

"Yes."

"Will he choose?"

Regulus knew who she meant.

"He already has. He just doesn't know it yet."

She tilted her head, golden hair gleaming like the moon through smoke. "You mean Potter."

Regulus didn't respond.

Narcissa set her cup down. "What happens to us when he chooses wrong?"

"Then we lose more than just a war."

They let that truth hang.

The fire reflected in the silver lining of his cuffs. She noticed how worn they were. Regulus had always dressed impeccably, but now the care looked more like armor than vanity.

"She adores you," Narcissa said, voice quieter.

"She shouldn't."

"But she does."

Regulus folded his hands in his lap. "She believes in the House of Black."

"So did we."

His gaze flicked toward her. "And now?"

"Now," Narcissa said, rising slowly, "I believe in what remains."

She crossed to the mantle. Picked up the silver-framed photograph that still stood there—an old image of three sisters in dark robes, arms linked, wind in their hair. Only one of them had stayed.

"Lyra is everything Bellatrix was not."

"She is everything Bellatrix was before," Regulus said, tone unreadable.

That made her pause.

He continued. "Before the madness. Before the devotion consumed her. Lyra is what Bella might have been if she'd loved legacy without needing to burn the world for it."

Narcissa let out a breath. Not a sigh. A reckoning.

"Then what happens when she finds out legacy isn't enough?"

Regulus looked away. "I don't know."

They stood in silence for a long while. The fire behind them cast two tall shadows onto the marble.

"Sirius will come back," Narcissa said.

"He already has."

She turned.

"He escaped?"

Regulus nodded. "Not yet. But he will. He's seen something. The Weasley photograph. It triggered it. He'll go."

Narcissa's hands tightened on the photo frame. "Then the year begins with our house undone."

"No," Regulus said softly. "It begins with what remains."

He stood. Moved beside her.

"This year isn't about Potter. Or even the Dark Lord. It's about the Blacks."

"The ones who stayed."

"The ones who left."

"The ones who watched."

"And the one who will choose."

Narcissa's lips thinned. "She cannot be broken."

"She will be. But not destroyed."

He turned to go. Stopped in the doorway.

"I am not asking for forgiveness, Cissa. But when it comes—when she finds out—don't let her believe she was wrong to love me."

Narcissa's voice cracked, very faintly. "Then give her something to hold."

Regulus nodded. "I already did."

He vanished into the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And in the quiet, Narcissa Malfoy closed her eyes. She knew. What is now more important than ever. Family.

The House of Black did not fall in one day. It fractured over years.

But this year it would repair, she thought. Cracks will be patched up. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black will come together again.